


starve my heart of touch and time.

by katarama



Series: leave this blue neighborhood. [6]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alcohol, Anonymous Sex, Casual Sex, Clubbing, Cunnilingus, Flashbacks, Hypersexuality, Las Vegas, Light BDSM, Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Post-Draft, Protected Sex, Subspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 17:23:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10621599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katarama/pseuds/katarama
Summary: There are some bad decisions that Kent barrels his way into, knowing they’re terrible ideas.  A dirty check on someone twice his size.  Saying something honest to the media after a game, instead of giving the press-perfect approved message.  They’re things Kent can do, that Kent sometimes does too much, driven by impulse and spite.  But they feel safe, even once the consequences hit.  Kent may walk away with sore ribs or a new black eye, may have to sit through another media training session and a lecture from the PR person.  But when Kent is at his highest, they’re bad decisions that he hates himself for making but that don’t feel like they can touch him.But being with someone - actually being with them, in a way that is real and present and not half-assed for appearances’ sake.  That’s something different entirely.  That's a risk that feels too big for Kent to take.





	

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  **If you're new to this series, start[HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/10586022).**

**February 2011**

 

 

Kent’s eyes crack open as the plane dips closer to the ground, an uneven sort of descent that always makes his stomach lurch.  His mouth is dry, but it isn’t worth it to root through his carry-on for his water bottle at this point.  The seat belt light is on, and it’s too dark to see much of anything anyway; the lighting is dimmed and the sky outside is black, the plane still too far above the ground for the Vegas strip to overwhelm everything with flashing lights and color.  From above the layer of clouds, Kent almost thinks he can make out some stars, though he doesn’t know which ones they are.

Jack might know that, these days.  Kent has heard talk that he’s going to fancy college out East instead of reentering the draft.

The news dropped on ESPN early that afternoon.  Kent doesn’t know if it’s true or not, though he’s tried to find out.  That got him about as far as he expected, though.  His inbox is now filled with concerned messages from Bob and Alicia asking how he’s doing and offering to talk about his last series.

He got radio silence from Jack.

It isn’t like Jack has talked to him in two years, anyway.  He didn’t know what he expected.

Better than this, though.  Maybe that was asking too fucking much.

The plane lurches again, and Kent pulls his earbuds out of his ears.  Everything is quiet, aside from the whirring of the engines and one of the D-men snoring in the row behind Kent.  Kent turns his music off, and his fingers hesitate over the home button.  He’s itching to check his messages again, just to make sure Jack still hasn’t replied.  He doesn’t even know if he gets service up here; he probably doesn’t.  It doesn’t stop the temptation to check, though, just to be sure.  Years after the replies stopped coming, he should have learned better, but he still wants to refresh the chat until his finger goes numb and his battery is nearly dead.

He forces himself to press the button on the side to put his phone back to sleep, instead.  He knows that he should have better reasons not to check his texts, like the sticky little rules the government has now about having phones on airplane mode.  He’s never given a fuck about those, though.  Right now, the small shreds of self-control Kent has left are the only things keeping him from staring forlornly (and pathetically) at the string of messages in his and Jack’s chat.

Every single one of them has been sent by Kent.

Thinking about it always makes Kent sad, but the sad always transitions way too quickly into mad, and then frustrated and then.

Alone.  Which is probably the worst feeling of them all, because it creates this awful itchy feeling under his skin, a sort of restlessness that makes him desperate to find someone new to cling to.  Someone better than Jack.  Someone who would make Jack envious.  Someone who would make Kent stop wanting Jack back, because they’d fill every need Kent had.  Someone who would make Jack want Kent back, so Kent could be the one to say no this time.  Even if he didn’t mean it.  Even if he took it back right after.

It turns out that that’s way easier said than done, though, because it turns out Kent doesn’t know how to cling to just anyone.  

There are some bad decisions that Kent barrels his way into, knowing they’re terrible ideas.  A dirty check on someone twice his size.  Saying something honest to the media after a game, instead of giving the press-perfect approved message.  They’re things Kent can do, that Kent sometimes does too much, driven by impulse and spite.  But they feel safe, even once the consequences hit.  Kent may walk away with sore ribs or a new black eye, may have to sit through another media training session and a lecture from the PR person.  But when Kent is at his highest, they’re bad decisions that he hates himself for making but that don’t feel like they can touch him.  

But being with someone - actually being with them, in a way that is real and present and not half-assed for appearances’ sake.  That’s something different entirely.  That’s a risk that feels too big for Kent to take.  That’s trusting someone way too goddamn much, getting questions that Kent can’t answer.  That’s people acting like they know shit they don’t, acting like they can _see_  him, like there’s some _deep_  and _painful_  angst hidden behind Kent’s eyes, the reflection fragmented like the design on the bottom of a pool, or spiderweb-cracked glass.  Or something.  Kent doesn’t know how to get those cheesy, dramatic, exaggerated words quite right.  He was never cut out for writing romance novels, or he wouldn’t be playing hockey in the first place.

Trusting someone with Kent’s body is nothing.  Trusting someone with Kent’s body comes easy as breathing.  Kent takes care of his body, watches what he puts into it and works hard to make sure that it’s in shape for hockey.  But he isn’t going to pretend that he cares all that much about it, at the end of the day.  His job is throwing himself around an arena made of ice with two metal blades on the bottom of his shoes and with big, burly men surrounding him.  He takes a risk every time he steps out into the rink, and he trusts his team and his trainers to make sure he doesn’t fuck himself up too bad.

Trusting someone with the mess that is Kent’s feelings, though, is a stupid risk, even by Kent’s standards.  It’s risking that someone belittles them or makes fun of them or uses them to hurt him.  It’s risking that they’re careful with his feelings and that things go wrong, anyway.  That he fucks things up, or that he gets too attached, like he knows he would, and loses everything again.  That he starts to love them, and then they leave.

So Kent keeps his feelings to his therapy sessions and to himself, and he redirects this itchy feeling under his skin, this need for contact, somewhere safer.  Somewhere where the worst case scenario is that a picture of his dick gets leaked online.  He has a good dick.  Though he suspects that management would disagree with him, he doesn’t really care all that much if other people get a peek.

Besides, it’s not like all that many people can identify his dick on sight, anyway, so it’s no big deal.  At least, that’s what he tells himself as the lights of Vegas draw closer and he starts to make mental plans.  He settles into his seat, ignoring the way his muscles ache from sitting too long, and he shoves his phone into his pocket to give himself some peace of mind, if only for a half an hour.

“Yo, who wants to bet that Captain’s getting some tonight?” the teammate sitting directly in front of Kent asks as they finally touch down.  No one says anything, partly because they’re all fuckers and partly because Kent has some sort of _reputation_  here.

“Why tonight?” Troy asks from across the aisle from Kent.  The teammate perks up, his grin taking up half his face.

“Dude was kneeing the back of my chair the entire flight.  Parson’s pent up as shit after this last roadie.”

“He can’t sit still on a good day, bro, that doesn’t mean-” Troy starts, glancing at Kent for some kind of confirmation, but Kent just shakes his head and shrugs.

“I wouldn’t say no to a night out,” Kent says.  His teammate protests Kent resolving the question before he suckered anyone into putting money on it, but Kent isn’t really too focused on that.

The way Swoops is looking at him, his gaze heavy but neutral, as if carefully avoiding judgment, holds more of Kent’s attention.

“Team night out!” someone shouts, and Kent shoots a grin in their direction.  But he can’t shake the feeling in the pit of his stomach that maybe he should’ve pretended he was having a night in.

Troy would look less concerned, for one.  And maybe, just maybe, if Kent were out by himself, he would’ve gotten away with a carefully concealed hook-up with a dude.

Oh well.  Kent makes a mental note to pack a dental dam in his back pocket and grabs his carry-on from under the seat in front of him.

* * *

 

Kent doesn’t remember when this part of things became so familiar.  

He remembers a time when he thought sex was something Special, something to be shared only with someone important to him.  He remembers when everything was new, when the feeling of someone else touching his body was a novelty, was enough to have him hard in his pants and scrambling to picture the least sexy thing he could imagine.  He remembers when he joked about sex with the guys and bluffed like he hooked up with girls so he didn’t have to admit that the only person he’d actually ever fucked was one of his teammates.

Okay, so he remembers exactly when this part of things became so familiar.  It was when he stopped fucking his teammate.  It was when he went to Vegas and was surrounded by pretty girls who wanted him, when he was at the moment in his life when he felt the least wanted and the most lost.  Finding his way into a hole is pretty easy.  It doesn’t take a genius to do it.  And it has the incredibly pleasant side effect of him knowing he’s made someone feel good, which is a high he didn’t even know he relied on so much until he suddenly didn’t have it anymore.

That’s what he’s chasing tonight, more than anything.  He doesn’t need the sex for sex’s sake.  If he wanted to get off, he has an NHL salary and access to the internet.  He has his toys and his hands, if it were just about wringing out an orgasm or two.  It’s more about the need to touch someone and the need to make them feel good, to make their body shake and clench and come under his hands and mouth and cock, that drives him out to the clubs.  

Tonight, like most nights, that part of things comes easy.  

It’s easy to catch someone’s eye from across the room, to smirk and exchange a few flirty glances, to slowly enter each other’s orbits.  It’s easy to offer to buy someone a drink, to make a quip about getting something without too much alcohol, paired with a warm once-over.  It’s easy to invite someone to dance and to press up close to someone, to feel them slide their thigh between his, to lean in close and whisper in their ear, asking if they want to head out of there.  

Tonight, she’s wearing a tight dress that hugs her curves.  She has curly brown hair and bright purple lipstick, and when Kent leans in to talk to her over the music of the club, he sees a smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks.  He asks if she wants to go somewhere more private, and she smiles and says yes.  In the dim but yellow light by the coat check, while they wait for the cab they called, he looks her in the eyes to see them when they aren’t reflecting the neon colors of the club, and he breathes a sigh of relief at the green.  Because sometimes it doesn’t matter, sometimes he doesn’t even notice.  But tonight that would be more than he could handle, lifting his head and seeing those dark lashes framing piercing blue.

It’s enough to steady him, to tell himself he can do this.  They talk a little bit, enough for him to learn that she’s from out of town but is staying alone that night, and he kisses her in the back of the car, when it arrives.  He’s half-hard by the time they actually get back to her hotel room, but he ignores his dick; his hands go straight to her, copping a feel as he peels her out of her dress.  He kisses her and relishes in the quiet noises she makes as his mouth drifts down to her neck and her breasts, and he makes sure she’s good and wet already before he reaches for his back pocket.  She gets his shirt off, but he keeps his snapback twisted backwards on his head when he tears the package off the dental dam and dives in.  

There are times he wishes he were less careful.  Times when it’s hard to ignore the urge to taste someone, to get his tongue covered in their slick, fuck the consequences.  But he struggles with it and he pushes it to the side, because there are risks that aren’t smart but are worthwhile, and risks that aren’t smart or worthwhile.  

And while going unprotected wouldn’t be a worthwhile risk, eating this girl out is, definitely.  She steals his snapback and puts it on her own head, instead.  He has a feeling he isn’t ever going to get it back, but he doesn’t really mind.  He doesn’t think that he’s even going to remember to want it back, by the time she’s done with him.  Her eyes are sharp and bright as she digs her fingers into his hair, nails scritching at his scalp.  Her thighs tighten around his head as he eats her out until his lips are numb, feeling her body shaking as she comes once, and then having her hand dragging him back in to get back to work and make her come again.  Kent gets so immersed in it, the taste of latex and the smell of her soaking wet cunt and the way her cheeks and chest flush as he sucks at her clit, the way her hair sticks to the sweat on her back and the way her moans feel pressed into his skin even though he’s nowhere near her mouth, every instruction she gives filling his head and urging him on.  

She comes until she can’t anymore, until Kent forgets the steady ache of his dick against his too-tight pants, so caught up in seeing if she has one more orgasm in her or not.  So caught up in making her feel as good as he can.  When her hand finally brings him back up for air, he can’t even imagine the way he looks, but he revels in the way she looks.  Her eyelids are heavy, masking those green eyes of hers, and her whole body is sex-flushed, and it fills Kent with a bone-deep satisfaction that he can’t seem to find any other way, not even always out on the ice.  

For a moment in time, he has everything he needs.  For one brief moment, the itchy feeling under his skin goes quiet, because someone is looking at him like he gave them everything they could have possibly needed.

And then she gets him off and cleans them both up, and then she’s getting ready for bed and Kent is left with the ever-pressing question of what he’s going to do.  He’s glad he didn’t bring his car, because his head is entirely too fuzzy to even consider driving home.  Dozing off definitely sounds tempting, especially when the hotel bed is surprisingly soft and relatively spacious.

But, even though he knows it’s a dick move, even though it makes his stomach lurch more uncomfortably than the plane’s uneven landing, there’s no way he can stay there.  There’s no way he can lay sleepless in bed next to her.  There’s no way he can wake up to her and have morning after talk that Kent refuses to let be awkward.  There’s no way he can act like this is something that can happen again, because Kent doesn’t believe in fuckbuddies, he tried that once and it landed him here, crawling into bed with strangers just to keep himself from feeling alone.  Kent is going to keep his distance and he isn’t going to leave his number, though he may leave his snapback with the new set of hickeys around her neck.  It’ll be a fun story she can tell her friends, the time she slept with someone from the NHL.  And if it leaks to the press, all it will mean is that he has to try that much less to wind up in bed with someone, because he’ll suddenly be much more appealing than Jamie Benn ever was.

When her breathing evens out and her snoring starts, Kent grabs his stuff and carefully extricates himself from the bed.  He throws his clothes back on and carefully eases the door open, mussing his hair up and keeping his head down as he navigates back through the hotel lobby.  He gets an Uber when he gets outside and checks his messages, finally folding and letting himself look and seeing, that there’s nothing new from the person he wants to hear from most.

There is one new message.  It’s from Troy.  It’s a short message, and Kent doesn’t know if he did anything to prompt it or not.  Kent doesn’t think he looked off while they were on the plane earlier.  No one else noticed it.  But he shoots back a “yeah i’m fine” in response to Troy’s “hey, you okay?” and pockets his phone.

Kent stands outside the hotel, surrounded by the bright lights that shine through the clear desert sky.  The cool, dry Las Vegas air does little to help the sweat that still hasn’t dried from Kent’s face or his body.  He feels… he’s not actually sure.  How he feels.  Tired, definitely.  The achy kind of tired in his muscles and his jaw that tell him he probably should run the tub when he gets back to his apartment.  He wishes it were the right kind of tired.  He thought that this part of things, the sex that edged towards what he used to do for Jack, being somewhere closer to Jack’s end of those dynamics, would quiet his brain and fill it with enough fluff that he could have a little peace.  

But while the buzzing is gone from under his skin, it doesn’t free him from his thoughts.  It doesn’t give him messages in his inbox from Jack.  It doesn’t give him hope that Jack is any closer to him.  And it definitely doesn’t cure the loneliness that is just waiting to creep back in the second he pauses long enough for it to catch up.

“You can always talk to me,” Troy sends him back.  Kent ignores it.  He’ll reply later, maybe, if he remembers.  Maybe that can be a text he goes back to reread over and over again before bed, instead of staring at all the messages Jack definitely read but never responded to.  Or even worse, binge reading about the shithole that is Samwell University.

But for now, Kent doesn’t know what to say to him.  Or to anyone, really.  So he leans back against the wall, smelling like sweat and come and waiting for his ride home.

**Author's Note:**

> On tumblr [here](http://polyamorousparson.tumblr.com)


End file.
